The Song of Castiel
by Enochianess
Summary: Dean is sent away by his father to live with Zachariah and his younger brother Castiel. Although the two boys are wary of each other initially, they quickly become friends and grow into young men skilled in the arts of fighting and hunting evil. It doesn't take long before their bond begins to become something much deeper, despite Cas' eldest brother Michael expressing his distaste
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so this fic is heavily based on The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (Incidentally the best book in the world. Seriously. Go read it.) but I've reworked it to fit Dean and Cas. The story is set in the US rather than Greece and I am very sorry if there are any inconsistencies. Give me a shout if you find any!**

 **The chapters are going to vary in length quite a lot, so updates will likely be a little sporadic.**

 **I've also made a playlist to go with this fic. It's on 8tracks and you'll find me there under the same name if you want music to accompany this story.**

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My father was a hunter, a hunter of monsters and all the creatures you fear emerging from the dark. But he wasn't always that. He married my mother Mary not long after high school; they were the neighborhood's typical teen sweethearts. They hated each other during their first semester, but one day they bumped into each other in the hallway and _poof;_ it was like they'd just surfaced from an ocean current they hadn't realized they were swept up in.

My grandpa didn't like him. My mother's family was very closely knit and secretive and my grandpa didn't trust easily; it wasn't until years later that I actually found out why. He didn't approve of their relationship, but my mother was stubborn and hell bent on escaping the life she'd been born into. In an accident my father never knew the truth about, my grandparents both died. My mother didn't want to waste anymore time or risk losing anyone else, so not long after that, my parents got married.

When I was born, my parents were thrilled. My mother stared down at me and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Angels are watching over you, _Dean."_ She whispered, her eyes sparkling as they met my father's. I was named after my grandmother, _Deanna._ I filled the hole that had been gaping in my mother's heart ever since her loss. I was a glimmer of hope.

Quickly, I grew into a troublemaker. I was cheeky and playful and boisterous and my parents found it difficult to keep up with me. We were a normal family and we were happy in our little idyll suburban life in Lawrence, Kansas. My parents fought sometimes and my dad had a habit of storming out in a rage, but I was always there to take care of my mom. I figured as long as I always loved her, she would always be okay.

I am four when my brother Samuel is born. My parents look slightly older, the creases in their foreheads and the crinkles of their eyes are slightly more prominent and deeply embedded in their skin. I sit beside my mother on the bed and look down in wonder at the small bundle she holds in her arms and when I look up at my father, his eyes are shiny with tears. "This is your little brother, Dean." He says softly. "You're a big boy now. You've gotta help us look after little Sammy." I felt it in my chest, that responsibility, that pride blooming because my dad was trusting me to help take care of this tiny human being.

I remember exactly six months later when I was shocked awake by the sound of my mother's scream. I remember sitting tangled in my favorite blanket, my body trembling as I listened to the loud thuds of my father's feet as he leapt up the stairs. I remember rubbing tiredly at my eyes as I got up and opened my bedroom door to see what was wrong. I remember my dad pushing Sammy into my arms and shouting, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now Dean. Go!"

Besides that moment, most of the night is nothing but a ménage of smells, sirens, people and too much heat. But one thing always remained crystal clear in my mind. Blue, blue, cerulean eyes. It was dark, besides the hazy, burning light blaring angrily from the embers of my childhood home, but I could still see the eyes of the boy with the dark, tousled hair who wore a pair of green pyjamas covered in little yellow and black bumblebees. His face was cast in the glow of the flickering flames, an almost halo appearing around his messy head. He looked cold with his arms folded and his hands tucked in his armpits. He looked over at me for a second and I watched in an almost trance as his head slowly tilted to the side, his eyes squinting to the point where they were almost closed. And then the tall man beside him placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and turned him away, and that was all I ever saw of him. I didn't know what his presence there meant. None of us did. But it was the beginning of something far greater than my five year-old self could possibly comprehend. It was the beginning of the end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Just to clarify, Benny and Chuck are a little older in this story than they were in the show. I hope that doesn't bother anyone, but it was just something I needed to do to make the story work.**

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I was shocked by the speed with which everything in my life changed. My father, wracked with grief and anger, spent every waking moment seeking revenge for the thing that had torn our lives apart and left him widowed with two sons. He no longer looked at me the way he used to and I found myself constantly trying to please him to see if it'd make him happy again. I learnt quickly that I wasn't going to be receiving affection anymore. I made it my mission to give all my attention to Sammy so he wouldn't grow up without knowing what it was like to feel loved. Even if my dad wasn't the same, I was very aware that I still had a job to do. I had to help look after my little brother. I had to do what my dad no longer could.

I was confused when my dad pulled the car on to the side of the road and asked me to get out. It would only take a minute, he said. He told me that something big was coming and that he needed my help. It was a little overwhelming. At the sprightly age of nine I had almost no inkling to what he could be inferring or, for that matter, what it was going to cost me in the future.

"Sammy's too young for this yet, Dean. I'm going to leave him with Pastor Jim for a few days, but I want you to come with me. We're going to a gathering of sorts with other people like us. Now, I usually like to work alone, but when something like this starts happening, us folks got to stick together." My dad said.

"Yes, sir."

Questions were burning in my throat and I was gasping with the urge to voice them, but I knew it was best to simply obey. I was a soldier, an inferior, to my father now. To ask questions was to doubt, to lack discipline. I needed to be good. That was how I knew to keep him happy. To me, there was no alternative. It was up to me to look after everyone. The need to save everyone was something I could never quite shake and ultimately it was to be my downfall.

We left Sammy in Blue Earth, Minnesota a week later and from there we headed east to Canaan, Vermont. The journey was uncomfortable to say the least. Usually, Sam and me sat together in the back talking about nonsensical things and playing with the toy cars we kept hidden in the seats. Sometimes Sam liked to hear stories, often about King Arthur and his knights of the round table or Achilles and his Therapon Patroclus, and I would go on for hours in the attempt of keeping him content. On this journey though, there was nothing but the rhythm of our breathing, Bad Company playing somewhat quietly on the radio, the sound of the engine thrumming and the asphalt rolling smoothly beneath us. I felt the loss of Sam like one would feel the loss of a limb.

It was late by the time we arrived at the motel. My eyes were bleary with sleep because besides making an adamant effort, I had eventually given in to an uncomfortable slumber against the interior of the Impala door. I pushed my little toy car around the surface of the coffee table in the reception area, pleased and comforted by the sound of the tinny wheels spinning pathetically.

"Your kid want a ball? I've got one sitting out back?" The middle-aged man behind the counter asked my dad.

I looked up with a small glimmer of hope.

"No, we're fine thanks. We're on a bit of a tight schedule. He doesn't have time to play."

I quickly put my toy in my pocket and stood patiently to wait for him.

The meeting was at Rufus Turner's house a couple of miles down the interstate, my dad told me. I had heard the name mentioned before, in relation to a famous hunter by the name of Bobby Singer. It was a story most people in our line of work knew. Many years before, Bobby's wife Karen had been possessed by a demon and because he was oblivious to all spheres of the supernatural world, he'd had no choice but to kill her. Succumbed by grief, much like my father, Bobby had delved into the new reality and began to track down the demon that had taken everything from him. Along the way he met Rufus and together they exorcised the demon. Rufus had helped cover up Karen's death and after that they were close friends, partners even. Then, several years later, something happened on a hunt in Omaha, and ever since they had been nothing but strangers.

It was several days before the meeting actually took place. I felt uncomfortable and small stood beside the bulk of my dad. I didn't understand why he wanted me to be there. I was going to be the youngest there by far and I didn't like the idea of sitting amongst gruff middle-aged men with my skinny arms and high-pitched voice. I tried my best to stand up straight and look confident, to somehow make myself larger. I didn't want to let my dad down by being childish and immature. I glanced up at him in search of approval, but his eyes were fixed on the closed door in front of us, his ears listening out for the sound of footsteps approaching to grant us entrance.

I felt smaller still as we were led down the narrow hallway, the sound of loud, deep voices echoing throughout the house. It was intimidating to step into the lounge, my neck aching with the need to constantly peer upwards, and be faced with a dozen tall plaid-wearing men. The small room was swelling with the overwhelming odors of whiskey, sweat, blood and dust. The scents were layered thick and heavy on top of one another and I couldn't help but wrinkle my nose at it. It wasn't that it was bad necessarily; it was just incredibly strong and made me feel woozy as if my pores were absorbing the perspired alcoholic content of it.

There was a nervous energy in the air that immediately prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. This meeting together of hunters, of dangerous and often violent men – though they were heroes too of course – was very rarely done. There weren't many of us who hunted together, most living solitary and lonely lifestyles. It was for self-preservation more than anything else. People in this business didn't usually have much in the way of a lifespan, and eventually it became too hard to watch anyone else you cared about die. Hunting alone took away that risk, but it came at one hell of a price. I could feel it then as I looked around at them all, the dark circles below their eyes and the tight creases of their foreheads. These men were miserable and I knew I was to become one of them. Despite myself, I didn't flinch. I knew my duty and the part I had to play in this world.

"I think it'd be safest if we all put our weapons down on the table." My dad said authoritatively.

"Maybe I didn't bring a weapon. Not all of us are here looking for a fight, Winchester." A broad shouldered man replied in a southern accent. He was fairly young compared to the rest of them and I wondered if he'd grown up in the life like me.

"So that isn't a .45 tucked away in there then, is it Benny?" My dad pointed to the inside of the man's dark blue jacket.

"Alright, alright. Everyone put your guns and knives and whatever else you've got up your sleeve on the table." Rufus drawled with a roll of his eyes. "Don't want anyone getting incapacitated under my roof. I can't be dealing with all that damn paperwork."

A ring of old, mix-match chairs had been set up and everyone sat down with a grumble, their eyes keen on the hunters beside them as if assessing a threat. It was only then I noticed that most of these men were pretty young; they were in their twenties or thirties at most. Besides Rufus, my dad was the eldest there. It was strange. I never thought of my dad as old, but sitting amongst all those other hunters, he suddenly looked incredibly worn and tired. I hadn't realized quite how much of a physical toll the past few years had had on him. I had always thought my dad was invincible, but in that moment I began to contemplate how long he had left. After all, there was an obvious reason why there were so few old men sat in the circle. They just didn't make it that long. We were shot down like flies.

"Now, I think we all know why we're here." Rufus had stood up.

A litany of grunts ran around the circle in response.

"Those black-eyed sons-of-bitches have been showing up all over the damn place over these past couple of years and I think it's pretty clear that somethin' ain't right. Now, we're used to the odd one surfacing here or there, but this is something different, something new. John's wife Mary, as you all know, was killed on their little one's nursery ceiling."

At this, I did flinch. My mom's death was something we _never_ spoke about. To hear it put in such simple terms as this was like a physical blow.

"We all know it was a demon and we all know the thing is still out there somewhere. What concerns us is what John here has started to put together."

My dad stood up. "Mary was killed exactly six months after Sammy was born. To begin with, I thought this was just a coincidence. But I was wrong. Over the past few years, I've started to see a pattern. The way Mary died, what it did to her, it did to other women too, other women whose children were turning six months old. I don't think it's happen chance that there have been more and more demon sightings since that night. I think they're planning something, something big, and I think it's something to do with my boy and all the other children like him. I was suspicious when I first noticed the pattern, so I went to Missouri, a psychic in Lawrence, to have a look at my son. She said there was something dark in him, something raw and inhuman. She said it wasn't like anything she'd ever seen or felt before."

I could think of nothing but _Sammy, Sammy, Sammy_. I felt like my dad was turning on him and that instinctive urge to protect quickly began to well up from some deep inherent place inside me. But this was my dad talking and it was my job to listen, so I fought it back down the best I could, my teeth clamping down like a vice to still my tongue.

"These signs, these omens we're getting- they're something real bad." Rufus said. "If there's demons messing around in these little kiddies' heads or doing God knows what else, there's no telling what they're capable of. If Missouri's right and there's something not human in them then they're dangerous. They're a threat. We've gotta be ready for the match to strike because if I'm right in this, the flame's gonna catch sometime soon and the whole damn world is gonna go up in smoke."

"So what are we gonna do? We can't just do nothing." The man beside Benny asked.

"I wish I knew, Chuck. But we've gotta figure something out, and something soon."

"You understand why I brought you with me today, don't you?" My dad asked in the car on our way back to Blue Earth.

"I don't think so."

"When this thing starts, we're gonna need everyone we can get. We're gonna need your help, Dean."

"But what about Sammy?"

"We're gonna try and save your brother, but if we can't... you'll have to kill him."

I turned to look out the window and dug my nails deep into my palms. Tears were burning in my eyes, but I wouldn't allow myself to cry. Men didn't cry. Men who were weak cried, and men who were weak ended up dead.

We didn't speak of the trip again and I think, as a way of coping, my mind twisted and warped the memory until it was nothing but a handful of distant, pale images. I was halfway convinced that they were something I made up, something I'd dreamt. Either way, I certainly paid them no attention on the rare occasion they surfaced in my mind. Before long, the whole idea of what had passed between the hunters seemed silly. I was nine years-old. The concept of my brother destroying the planet was not one I was able to comprehend.


	3. Chapter 3

"It only takes one mistake. You got that?" My dad told me. "Something tries to bust in-"

"Shoot first, ask questions later." I finished.

"That's my man."

I'd only been out for an hour or so, and it'd only been across the lot to the arcade, but it was enough. The first thing I noticed when I stepped back into the motel room was the strange light seeping from the small opening in our bedroom doorway. I shivered at the peculiar whispering, breathy noises drifting through the air and wrapping icily around me. My heart was racing uncomfortably in my chest but I walked slowly forwards until I could gently push the door open with my fingertips. I gulped when I saw the creature leaning over the sleeping form of Sammy. As silently as I could manage, I reached down to the shotgun my dad had left loaded for us and lifted it. I aimed, both eyes open and staring down the barrel, just as I had been taught, and flicked the safety off. There was nothing I could do about the small click the action made and I tried to keep my arms steady when the thing turned sharply towards me.

"Get out of the way!" My dad's voice suddenly bellowed, the door smacking open against the motel wall.

I leapt from the doorway and crouched low, my head down, my arms wrapping around myself. The shots fired. _One, two, three, four, five_ … I'm not sure how many times he fired as the monster dashed through the window, a shower of glass following in its wake. Still he shot. Again, again, again.

I stood up, my breathing harsh and my pulse racing.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," I could hear my dad saying over and over like a mantra.

Nervously I peered round the doorway. There was no use hiding. My dad was clutching Sam to his chest, his hands patting at Sam's head as if to reassure himself that he was still alive. Sammy was grumbling in confusion; he'd slept through the whole thing.

"What happened?" My dad snapped, his head turning so he could glare at me.

"I- I- I just went out." I stammered.

"What?" He spat.

"J- Just for a second. _I'm sorry._ "

"I told you not to leave this room. _I told you_ not to let him out of your sight."

The look of hatred on my father's face terrified me more than anything else that had occurred that night. The hatred that I'd seen on his face so many times when facing one of the monsters we hunted, that's how he was staring at me. I'd failed. I'd failed at the one job he'd given me. I'd failed at being a good son.

A week or so after the incident with the shtriga, my dad announced that we were being sent back to Lawrence.

"I've spoken to Missouri, she said there's a guy not far from her who looks after kids." He explained flatly.

It was unspoken, but I knew it was because of what I'd done. I hadn't protected Sammy and my dad couldn't risk anything like that happening again. He didn't think he could trust me to keep him safe anymore, so we were being shipped off to someone who could. I wanted to hate him for it, for taking us somewhere and abandoning us, but I could only hate myself. It was my fault this was happening.

"His name is Zachariah. He's sort of in the business, so he'll help train you while I'm away."

He didn't mention how long he was going to be away for, but I think I knew he wasn't going to be coming back anytime soon. Not for me anyway. Maybe for Sammy, someday.

Lawrence is located in the northeast of Kansas; 25 miles east of Topeka, 41 miles west of Kansas City. It is the sixth largest city in the state, but nothing remarkable. At least, not to ordinary folk whose mothers hadn't been fried on the ceiling. Still, it was the closest thing I'd ever had to a home and I was thankful that my dad had chosen it for my exile. It made the whole thing marginally more bearable. I somehow managed to convince myself that it was just something temporary, a break, a return to all that was and all that should have been. Of course it was far from any of these things.

The house in which Zachariah lived was large and old, situated only a few streets over from where we used to live. I didn't think of it at the time, but it suggested something suspicious about his presence at our house that night. He shouldn't have noticed, or at least he shouldn't have been concerned enough to travel the ten minute walk in the middle of the night just to have a look. Curiosity, you might say. But no, this was not that. This was about knowledge and what a man decided to do with it. This was about a foresight that could have saved us all. This was about a man ensuring that things would unfold exactly as they had been planned, no matter what it cost those involved. I didn't put any of this together though, not until a lot later when it no longer mattered.

Zachariah was somewhat of an enigma. No one in the neighborhood could tell you exactly when he arrived or estimate at how long he'd been living there. People whispered and speculated about him, primarily because more and more children seemed to appear on the lawn every week with no indication as to where they were coming from. But as well as this, though the man's presence in the town was fixed in people's memories for a number of years at the least, he didn't seem to have aged a day. Most of the town guessed he was in his mid-fifties and by that age you expected to see deterioration, but he never looked any different. He strolled around in his sharp suit, his grey hair combed at the sides, and the top of his head bald and shiny. No one could tell you what he did or where he went when he disappeared for the day. No one ever saw him in the city or anywhere else for that matter. So naturally, he made everyone antsy. The old woman across the street had even adopted the habit of tracing the shape of a cross and saying a quick word of prayer each time he walked past. Little did she know how amused it made him, or that he noticed it at all. After all, she was in her own home and he never cast her a glance. Still, Zachariah didn't need to look to know. He could hear every frightened murmur that left her lips in address to the Lord. He could hear every prayer.

We were led through the house by a boy called Uriel. He was eighteen and the eldest of all the children in the house. The place was decorated plainly and despite the many inhabitants, it felt almost unlived in. The walls varied from white to blue and were completely bare except from the cross that hung above every doorway. My footsteps sounded too loud on the hardwood flooring that ran through all the rooms and I glanced up at Uriel whenever I heard Sam dragging his feet. It was the sort of thing my dad always used to pick up on. I didn't know what the discipline was like in this new place and I was weary, ready to protect Sam from any possible onslaught or scolding. I was the only one left to defend him now.

I presumed we were being taken to Zachariah, perhaps in his study. I was surprised when, instead, we were taken into a high-ceilinged room filled with shelf upon shelf teeming and overflowing with books. There were new books, old books, paperbacks, hardbacks, books of every kind you could possibly imagine. Sitting casually on a tall-backed, blue suede chair, one leg thrown over the arm, was the boy with the messy brown hair I'd seen what now felt like a lifetime ago.

His nose was buried in a fancily decorated tome, the binding dark leather and covered in silver spirals. It looked dusty, old, expensive. I felt out of place there, stood with my torn, faded jeans and my oversized flannel that my dad had given to me. The boy did not look up and I wasn't sure whether it was because he'd not heard us enter or if he just wasn't interested enough to leave whatever world he was wrapped up in.

Uriel cleared his throat and the boy looked up lazily, his ocean-blue eyes sparkling at they glazed over us. He looked different now, older. That young plumpness of youth had gone as his limbs had grown and stretched. The roundness of his face had disappeared too. The one thing that had clearly not changed though, other than the glowing cerulean orbs, was the messy unkemptness of his hair. I felt almost a little jealous of his transformation. So far I had not changed quite so much. I still looked like a boy in his early youth.

"What are your names?" He asked, his voice deep for someone of his age.

I couldn't help the slight rage that burned beneath my skin. This boy was no older than me, yet somehow he was superior to me here. I got the innate sense that he was in charge of us and it was all because I hadn't been good enough to follow my dad's orders. He didn't think I was capable of looking after us, but apparently this boy was. I didn't understand it. Why were we being introduced to him? What was so important about this boy that he over-ranked all the other children, over-ranked Uriel?

"What are your names?" He repeated when neither of us answered.

"I'm Dean and this is Sam." I muttered. To have not replied a second time would have been rude. And obvious. I didn't want to mess things up here before we'd even begun.

He placed a finger in the margin of his book and let the pages fall closed around it. "My name is Castiel."

I gave him a curt nod.

"Welcome to Zachariah's." He said around a yawn.

He opened his book again and his eyes fell back to trace over the words inked into the thin paper. I turned to leave and Sam followed. I was more than aware we'd been dismissed.

It was daunting when we were shown to our beds upstairs. It was a long room and the narrow beds were set out side by side along both walls. It reminded me vaguely of a hospital, or of the orphanages I'd seen in films. I suppose that's what we were then anyway, all of us. We were abandoned children. Unwanted. Tucked away. Forgotten. Orphans. We dumped our stuff in the space between our beds, of which there was only a rucksack each, and sat down somberly. Some of the other children said hello and names were exchanged, but it all felt empty, hollow. I was suddenly struggling to come to terms with our new reality. I suppose part of me hadn't really believed my father would leave us like that. Clearly I was wrong. And unfortunately it wasn't for the last time.

We were called to eat by a loud banging. Sam and me had looked at each other in confusion when we first heard it, but the whoops of excitement from the other children as they raced from the room shouting about the lure of food quickly explained everything. We chased after them, not trusting our memory of where exactly they gathered to eat. I don't think Uriel had actually bothered to tell us.

Dinner was fairly casual. The wall between the dining room and kitchen had been knocked through to make a much larger, airier space that could fit three circular tables with enough chairs to seat all of us. The children queued at a wide kitchen island to take their serving, the boys pushing and shoving, the girls squealing in aversion. There was no adult in sight and I wondered where the food had come from. I'd been expecting someone to be watching over us, perhaps walking up and down and looking at how well we'd eaten, reprimanding us if we'd eaten too little or made too much mess or spoken with our mouths full. Instead, the children sat themselves down at the tables and chatted excitedly about the adventures of the day. Sam and I sat on the least busy table at the far end of the room and watched the commotion that took place around us. I let my eyes wander idly around the room and suddenly noticed a head of messy, brown hair. The children seated with him were hanging on to every word of whatever he was saying, their forks limp in their hands, their bodies leaning towards him as if they were flies drawn to a flame. I looked back down at my dinner and finished eating in silence.

We were free to do whatever we wished after dinner and most of the children ran out into the garden to play some sort of game. "Do you want to play?" One of them asked.

I shook my head. No, I did not want to play.

"What about you?" The girl asked Sam, her eyes wide and excited.

Sam looked up uncertainly at me. I shrugged my shoulders. _Do whatever you want_ , the movement said. Sam turned back to her and nodded, a smile spreading across his face wider than I think I'd ever seen before. Play. Here, Sammy could play.

That night I dreamed of the shtriga. I dreamed of holding the gun ready to fire, waiting for my dad to rush in. Except, in the dream, my dad never came. I watched, frozen, as the shtriga drained the life from little Sammy's body. I watched as he died and then lay cold and pale on the tiny bed. Then, the shtriga turned to me. _It's your turn_ , it seemed to say. I nodded. Yes, it was my turn. It was what an older brother like me deserved.

I woke with a gasp, my eyes darting wildly until I caught sight of the sleeping figure of Sam beside me, his chest rising and falling steadily with his breath. I jammed the fingers of one hand into my mouth and bit down, trying desperately to tamper down the scream that was threatening to leap out my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut to stem the tears, but that only brought the shtriga back to life again. So I lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling, tears rolling unabashedly down my cheeks, and waited for the sun to rise.

When I drifted awake in the morning, my eyes were heavy and sore. The children around me dashed about, smiles on the faces as they got ready, eager for breakfast and the start of a new day. Sam chatted amicably with them, his expression a mirror of theirs. I got ready silently. None of them spared me so much as a look. At breakfast I took the toast that was given to me and I ate it dry. I swallowed the orange juice placed in front of me and then I sat to watch the others.

Afterwards, training began. We were taken outside into the back yard and led along a path into the small forest beyond. We did not have to walk far before we reached a round clearing where targets and weapons were lined up. We stood in lines before the four targets and on the word go, a series of shots were fired. We had four bullets each and then we were moved to the back of the line ready for the next person. I took the gun in my hand, aimed and fired. No hesitation this time. It went straight between the eyes.

In the afternoon, we were left to our own devices. Most of the children ran back towards the house to resume their games from the day before. Sam ran with them and then reappeared panting a moment later.

"Dean, do you want to come play?" He asked breathlessly.

"No I'm okay here. You go though." I said quietly.

Sammy frowned but disappeared through the trees anyway, the heels of his boots flashing behind him.

The next day followed in exactly the same way, but this time Sam didn't bother to stop and ask me to play. At night, I laid awake listening to the sound of his breathing beside me until eventually it was enough to pull me under. Then, a few hours later, I would wake with a scream stuck in my throat, my body cold and damp, my pulse hammering.


	4. Chapter 4

**I have used the Enochian dictionary to help me with the language in this chapter. I'm not great at writing it so it might not be entirely accurate, but either way, yes it is actual Enochian.**

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Meal times quickly became a sort of haven for me. My nightmares had a habit of amalgamating into my conscious thoughts, the day no longer a refuge but a continuation of the fear I felt at night. The dining room was always loud, the children's voices gradually rising as the meal went on, all of them desperate to be heard above the others, and it helped to smother the constant breathy, whispering noises in my head. That sound, the inhuman noise the shtriga had made, was something I feared I would never forget. It followed me everywhere and made me more and more jittery, a paranoia blooming and ripening that made it difficult to keep my hands steady, my breathing even. But in the dining room, it was finally silenced. The tightening of my chest loosened, the tension in my shoulders released.

It also happened to be the only time during the day that I saw Castiel. It seemed strange, considering we lived in the same house, but it didn't take me long to learn that he was receiving separate instruction. Apparently, the home schooling the rest of us were receiving wasn't satisfactory for his educational needs. But, each time we sat down in the dining room to eat, he was there. His presence was unmistakable; I didn't even have to look up to know when he'd entered the room. He was like a beacon and the children swarmed eagerly towards him, elbows bumping and prodding in the jostle to sit as closely as possible. I was uncomfortable in my stature, my limbs folded clumsily, but he sat with perfect poise, his back ramrod straight, his head held in a way that suggested he was completely at ease. What was more infuriating, from where I sat watching on the opposite side of the room, was the way he seemed so utterly oblivious to the pull he had on the other children. I found it difficult to accept that anyone could be so naturally captivating, so naturally charming. Yet, when I looked at him it was irrefutable; he was entirely blind to his own effect.

Then, as if the envy wasn't already burning away at my insides, Sammy was lost to his allure as well. On this particular day, he was sat closer to me than usual. For whatever reason, he had given up his place closest to the kitchen and was sat at the middle table instead. I watched from my own seat at the far end of the room, my blood thrumming, my hands clenching, as Sammy laughed at something Castiel had said. _I used to make him laugh like that_ , I thought. The rage was barely contained inside me and I feared the moment the dam would undoubtedly begin to break.

As if I had spoken aloud, Castiel turned to face me. His wide blue eyes fixed upon my own and I had to fight back the shudder blossoming at the tip of my spine. I quickly cast my eyes down at the sandwich on my plate, and busied myself with removing the salad. I was sure my unexplainable embarrassment was showing on my cheeks, the skin feeling hot and aflame. I allowed myself one brief glance up, but Castiel was once again engaged in whatever conversation the children on that table were having. I kept my eyes low for the rest of the meal and tried not to think anymore of that pair of heavenly blue eyes.

After that, a sort of game was born between the two of us. I tried to be sly and crafty in my glances of him, but his eyes were always quicker. I tried to ensure my gaze could be averted the moment he looked at me, but at least once or twice he would catch me before I had the chance. For a split second our eyes would lock and something inexplicable would pass between us. The contact - untouchable, unbreathable, unexplainable - was the only time I felt anything besides fear. The swooping of my stomach filled me with a kind of glee. I was confused but I couldn't convince myself to stop the silent interaction.

On the fourth week of becoming an orphan, I walked in for dinner to find Castiel sitting at my table. Not only that, but he was sitting on my seat. Annoyance flared inside me as I took my serving and proceeded to take the only available place left at my table. I liked the time I spent in peace and quiet during dinner, but there was no way in hell I was going to let Castiel drive me away. My dad had always told me to stand my ground and protect what was mine. I guess old habits died hard.

With Castiel at the table, little attention was paid to me anyway. The children told him excitedly about their games and their lessons of the day as if Castiel was a parent or older sibling they were trying to impress, never mind the fact he was a child himself. I noticed that his smooth skin was considerably more tanned than it was the first day we'd got here and I couldn't help but wonder what he was doing outside by himself and where exactly it was he was doing it. As far as I could tell, there wasn't anywhere else in close proximity for them to train. I stared at his clear, unblemished golden skin in resentment. My skin was spattered and dotted with freckles from the long hours out in the sun. I had been teased by the boys about them at the different schools I'd been to. They'd said girls had freckles, so I punched them in the face and spat at their feet. More often than not I'd be suspended for it, but then we'd be moving on to another town anyway and it made little to no difference. School wasn't exactly a priority for me.

Normally, once everyone had finished eating Castiel would say goodnight and disappear to his own hidden corners of the house. Somehow, no matter how much exploring I did of the house, I could never find where Castiel stayed. I couldn't even find the library from that first day. It was as if it had just disappeared entirely. I'd asked Sam about it but he'd just shrugged and run off to play with Ava. It seemed the warping of the house and the vanishing of rooms was something everyone here either accepted or simply just ignored. It made my skin itch to live in something so unnatural and _alive,_ to actually be existing _inside_ the thing. On this night, however, Castiel remained seated. He ran his hands through his messy hair and tugged at the slightly longer length of it. He leant forwards and pulled the bowl of bread rolls towards him, taking the remaining few into his hands.

With a delicate and practised flick of his wrist, Castiel began to juggle the three white rolls in his hands. The movements were quick and sure, fluid, controlled, beautiful. The children watched him, utterly enraptured, and squealed for him to continue, to go faster, to go higher. I tried following the blur of colour with my eyes and found myself falling into a sort of hypnoses. I didn't want to fall victim to his enchantment, but there was something in those talented movements of his that were mesmerising. I couldn't convince myself to look away. To feign disinterest would be an impossibility.

Suddenly, Castiel's eyes flickered from where they were following the circling bread to meet my own gaze. "Catch." He said as he artfully tossed one of them towards me. I caught the roll in the cup of my hands. It felt warm from his touch still. The children whooped with glee.

Castiel placed one bread roll back into the bowl and bit a chunk out of the other. The bread looked white and fluffy, soft and doughy. With not a moment's thought, I brought the roll in my own hand to my lips and began to nibble away at it. Every night since then I had finished my meal with a roll of bread, my mind drifting back to the revolving motion and the way he'd made something so simple and meagre appear so wonderful.

He pushed his chair back and got to his feet, saying a quick goodbye before leaving for the evening. I was sure he was going to look back at me, but he never did. He walked out the room and left for wherever it was exactly he liked to spend his free time.

The following day, Zachariah came home from whatever business he had been conducting. No one ever mentioned what it was he did and it seemed it was safest to keep those sorts of questions to yourself. Uriel collected Sam and me from the back yard and took us to meet him. Yet again, I was led into a room that I had never seen before and when I tried to think about how it was I got there, I came out blank. Sam didn't seem to notice anything amiss and this only made me feel antsy about the whole thing. Zachariah asked for our names and I replied dutifully with, "I'm Dean Winchester and this is my little brother Sam."

"You're here because your dad doesn't believe you are safe alone anymore. You're here to be protected. You understand that, don't you?"

 _Doesn't believe in me_ , I thought. That was what he meant to say.

"Yes." I answered. Part of me wanted to say more. I wanted to say that it wasn't fair, that I'd learnt my lesson, that we were ready to go home now - home had never been a place for us, it had always simply meant family, and family had always meant dad. I wanted to tell him about my nightmares, about the sounds I could constantly hear in my brain, about the way I could never seem to sleep anymore. I kept my mouth shut though.

"You're safe here. Please make yourselves at home." It was said kindly, but it didn't make me feel any better. I understood then that this was final. This was now our lives.

Later that day, either from Sammy or maybe even Zachariah, the other children learnt about the events leading to our abandonment. With barely any contact to anyone or anything in the outside world, the children had few stories to tell other than the rumours they could get hold of. Rumours and secrets were something with which they could bargain with - none of them had anything else of worth - so naturally they spread like wildfire. Still, it didn't mean I wasn't surprised by the abrupt change in them, the disgust and judgment on their faces as soon as I entered a room, the deathly silence. They watched me from a distance, but no one approached me to play anymore. The children spoke of me, in hushed whispers when they thought I couldn't hear, but they said not one word to me. Not even Sammy.

The shame and guilt I felt was asphyxiating and my already small world quickly shrunk further as I began to seek out dark corners or quiet rooms to hide away in. Other than the soft creaking of the house as it settled and the occasional gentle patter of rain on the roof, there was complete silence.

"They said you were up here somewhere." A clear melodious voice.

I looked up from where I was curled up on the floor. I was in a supply closet located a few doors down from where we all slept. I'd been dreaming of the Grand Canyon, of standing at the edge and looking down upon one of God's greatest creations (in my opinion anyway). I could imagine the bright blue sky, the calm and tranquility of the wide open space, the silence of the canyon, the feeling of wonder.

It was Castiel, leaning against the now closed closet door. He stared down at me flatly and pulled on the cord beside his head to illuminate the small space. Guilt nibbled away at my insides. I was not supposed to be here and now I'd been caught.

"I've been trying to find you." He said, his tone impassive; it made me nervous not being able to ascertain his intentions. "You haven't been going to training with the other children."

I sat up with a blush. Anger began to surface from beneath the guilt. It was humiliating to be reprimanded by him, a boy no older than myself.

"How do you know? You don't even train with us."

"Raphael, the man who trains you, spoke to Zachariah. He noticed your absence."

"And you're here because he sent you to find me."

"No, I came here of my own accord." Castiel's voice was calm and gentle, but I saw the way his jaw tautened just a little. "I overheard their conversation this morning. I thought I would check you're not unwell."

I stayed silent. Castiel watched me with a slight tilt of his head.

"Zachariah is thinking about making an example of you. He may punish you."

I wasn't sure what punishing entailed here, but by the grim look on Castiel's face I assumed it wasn't pleasant.

"You're not sick." He said.

"No." I replied flatly.

"Then clearly that can't be your excuse."

"Pardon?" Lost in my thoughts, I wasn't following his direction of conversation.

"Your excuse for where you've been instead of going to training." Castiel sighed, but no irritation showed on his face. "So that you're not punished. What are you going to say?"

"I don't know."

"You've got to come up with something."

"Well you're his favourite aren't you?" I snapped.

Castiel jerked back slightly in surprise. "I guess so…"

"Tell Zachariah I've been with you. He'll let me off the hook then." I said with a confidence I did not feel.

A small frown appeared on his face, his mouth twisting slightly. "I don't like lying."

It was such an innocent remark to make from a child in this life. I didn't understand it.

"Then take me to your lessons." I said. "You won't be lying then."

Castiel's mouth fell open slightly and he stared intently at me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled under his scrutiny and the complete and utter silence that had fallen between us. There was something otherworldly about him, the way everything seemed to still just because he wished it so, the earth tilting on its axis, the whole world (including me) holding its breath.

Then something seemed to change in the blue depths of his eyes. A decision had been made.

"Follow me." He said.

"Where?" I asked nervously; perhaps he would take me to Zachariah himself.

"To my Enochian lesson, so it won't be a lie. We can speak to Zachariah afterwards."

"Now?" I asked.

"Of course. Why not?" His head tilted again. I was beginning to understand that this was a common mannerism of his.

When I stood up, my body was stiff from being on the hardwood floor for so long. My stomach swooped with the prospect of something new, something a little reckless, something to escape the misery I'd been suffocating in. For the first time in weeks, I felt hope.

We walked in silence through halls that I was pretty sure were not usually there, until we came to a small room with a large wooden desk and walls lined by bookshelves completely stacked full with paper. Castiel gestured for me to take a seat and he dragged a chair over from the corner of the room and sat beside me.

Castiel grabbed a couple sheets of paper from the other side of the desk and pushed some towards me before handing me a pen. He then pulled a book out of the bag I hadn't noticed him carrying and set that open between us.

"What's Enochian?" I asked him.

A deep crease appeared between his brows. "You've never heard of Enochian?"

I shook my head. I felt embarrassed and inferior. School had never been my strong suit but I was certain there had never been lessons for whatever this was.

"Enochian is a language, a very old language. It is the language of the angels." He explained gently, not at all mocking.

Castiel pulled the textbook closer to us and pointed. "They use a different alphabet to us, but much of the grammatical rules remain the same."

I ran my fingers over the smooth paper and stared down at the weird squiggles.

"You understand this?" I asked, my voice falling inexplicably to a whisper.

"Yes. I grew up speaking it."

"What does this say?" I pointed to the first line on the page.

"Dobix de caosg od zodireda zizop. Zamran od mapsama iadnah." Castiel seemed to sing. "It means, 'Fall to Earth and take a vessel. Show oneself and tell them divine knowledge'. It's not an exact translation, but that's pretty close."

"It is beautiful." I said, my throat dry.

Castiel turned as if to say something, but at that moment the teacher walked in.

"Who is this?" The old man asked as he sat at the other side of the desk.

"This is Dean." Castiel said. "He doesn't know any Enochian, but he will learn."

The man looked a little angry as he stared at Dean, but he didn't say anything.

"Continue from where we left off yesterday. You still need to practice your pronunciation." He said.

Castiel nodded and leant over the textbook. I listened to the musical sounds falling so delicately from his lips, the vowels and consonants playing together and rolling from his tongue in a way utterly unlike any other language I had heard. A warmth and feeling of safety washed over me as I was lulled by his deep voice.

He stopped suddenly, pushed his messy hair back, and turned to me.

"It's your turn."

I shook my head what felt like 200 times. No, it would never sound like that if I tried to say it. All I wanted to do was sit there and listen to Castiel talk in the magical tongue forever. "No, you read." I said.

Castiel returned to the book and the melody of his angelic speech once again filled the little room. The morphemes and phonemes ran together smoothly and he never stuttered, even as the language seemed to get more and more incomprehensible. I found myself leaning forwards in awe, my eyes trying to follow the words on the page.

When at last he finished, I felt strangely empty. I had been taken somewhere else, some other dimension, but the silence brought me crashing back into the reality of my situation. The teacher nodded approvingly to him and Castiel stood up. It took me a moment before I realized he was waiting at the door for me.

"It's time to go and see Zachariah."

I nodded with an audible gulp, but did not hesitate to follow Castiel down the hallway.


End file.
